


City Lights

by hoko_onchi



Series: Lives Well Lived [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dates, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Quentin's fear of flash mobs, San Francisco, So much kissing, Vacation, minor Wickoff content, reading poems, skyline, so fluffy and soft, the fluffiest, the softest, there's some sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: Quentin and Eliot take a vacation for Q's four-year return-from-the-dead anniversary. They have a very romantic date. They look at the skyline. They eat ice cream. Eliot has a few surprises up his sleeve and a question for Quentin.In which Quentin and Eliot are alive, happy, sober, thriving, going to therapy, taking vacations, living like adults, doing all the things the show didn't let them do.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Lives Well Lived [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842493
Comments: 30
Kudos: 125





	1. The weight of the world/is love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CabiriaMinerva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/gifts).



~Eliot~

“El, there’s a balcony.” He looks over as Quentin smiles and opens the sliding door, a big grin on his face like he just found a four-leaf clover. He steps outside on the postage-stamp sized outcropping, and the breeze rolls in, slightly salty-smelling and fresher than New York. It’s August, and in San Francisco, it’s cool and brisk, a micro-season that’s has nothing to do with the sweltering summer happening in the rest of the country. 

“Yeah, baby. Only the best for you. Gotta have a balcony,” Eliot says absently. He mentally checks over everything he’s planned for today and tomorrow—dinner tonight and then sleeping through their jet lag, a longer date tomorrow. A few surprises along the way.

“If we still smoked, we could smoke out here.” 

Eliot laughs. “Otherwise, it’s not that useful, is it?”

“Mm, I dunno,” Quentin says. He steps back inside and leaves the door open, walking around and inspecting the cabinets and the king-sized bed with its stark white comforter and navy blue accented pillows, the reclaimed wood floors, the netting laid over the four-poster bed frame. It’s très old world, and it was more than a little bit above Eliot’s budget, but what’s being a magician even for if you can’t cast some quick illusion work to score a gorgeous AirBnB in Russian Hill for your boyfriend’s returning-from-the-dead anniversary? Really, it wouldn’t be worth being a magician at all if he couldn’t do that. 

And, really, this is a beautiful place. It’s in Russian Hill, so it’s quiet and peaceful and appropriate for twenty-somethings on the closer-to-thirty side of things. It’s also close to Eliot’s favorite Italian restaurant in the city and walking distance from all the museums that Quentin wants to visit. (Which is a lot. Eliot might lose his mind just from hearing Q talk about _all the educational opportunities in this marvelous American city_ ). 

“What’s a balcony good for if not for smoking?” Eliot asks. He checks his phone to see a text from Kady. It’s a picture of their dog, Walter. She has him on a walk with the puppy she scored during the monster’s reign of terror. The puppy is now a big, lazy dog and is very sick of Walter’s shit. 

“Looking out at the skyline?” Quentin is shuffling through his bag, pulling out the clothes that Eliot wants him to wear tonight for their date at Mourad, a Moroccan restaurant Eliot had been dying to try. Q is casting a steaming charm to get out all the wrinkles, making slow, careful work of the embroidered black button-down and gray trousers Eliot had gotten him at the menswear boutique near their apartment in Brooklyn. Quentin insisted on packing his back full of dark blue and black jeans and _God_ , black and gray t-shirts. But he’s let Eliot pick his outfits for their evenings, as usual. It gives him a goddamn thrill to dress Quentin, even if it’s only at night.

“I have a whole skyline thing planned already.” 

“Oh, you’re letting some of your plans slip now, are you?” Quentin shakes out the shirt and inspects it. 

“Bit by bit. You’ll figure it out.”

“And we can still go to Alcatraz?”

“Days are yours. Nights are mine. Okay, baby? I might not go to Alcatraz. But I’m yours for wherever else you want to go.”

“No Alcatraz?”

“I’d rather not go spend time in a depressing island prison. I spent enough time trapped and possessed to last for a few lifetimes.”

“Fair enough,” Quentin says. He hangs up his clothes in the closet near the bathroom and gets to work on the navy pinstripe shirt and dark green slim-cut pants for tomorrow evening. Eliot shivers. He’s going to look delicious. And he belongs entirely to Eliot. 

It’s been four years since Quentin came back from the dead, and Q has been Eliot’s _official boyfriend_ since the week after he woke up in his new body. (Things were awkward with Alice for a little while, but mostly since she’d started dating Kady several months prior and was terrified to tell Quentin. Eliot took care of it for her, and Quentin had been so delightfully relieved, and he’d kissed Eliot and told him that he only wanted him, forever, in any timeline. It was sappy and over-the-top and totally on-brand for Quentin. And Eliot had just recently started to believe it.)

Eliot flips through the tourist magazines and brochures set out on the farm-style dining room table while Q works on his shirt for tomorrow night. There’s a box of See’s Candies which Quentin will surely devour by the time they leave for Big Sur in a few days, and there’s a bottle of San Giovese from Napa that would be awfully tempting if Eliot hadn’t been sober for the better part of three years. He doesn’t feel a pull to it, but sometimes he does miss the taste of wine. Quentin stopped drinking a month or two after Eliot had, right after they both had started going to therapy. It had felt like such a new thing then—taking care of themselves, taking care of each other. It’s habit now, just as much as drinking and smoking were before. Eliot does miss cigarettes. He’s not a liar. And he wouldn’t lie about that. But he likes the idea of a long life not sharing Quentin with anyone else (apart from an occasional agreed-upon threesome or foursome), and in order to have an actually long life, well. He figured he’d better stop killing his body and his only remaining brain cells. 

“When’s our reservation?” Quentin turns to him, eyes glinting.

“It’s at six. Thought we’d appreciate an early evening because of the jet lag.” 

“How responsible of you,” Quentin says. “What time is it now?”

“I don’t know, Q. Why don’t you check your phone?” Eliot says, a bit cheeky. He knows this game. 

“Oh, I did. It’s two. There’s a place we could get ice cream a couple of streets down. I thought before that… we could…”

“We can’t get ice cream.”

“Oh?” Quentin’s pink mouth forms a perfect little O. He’s still so gorgeous. Eliot knows that’s something that’s not going to change—his beauty will just develop, like a painting filled in over time. He knows Old Quentin, and Old Quentin is stunning with a beard. He’s probably the luckiest man in the known universe since he’s the only one who knows what his boyfriend will look like as a hot dad of fifty-three. 

“No, we can’t.” Eliot steps over to Quentin. “It’s prohibited.” He runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair, shoulder length now, thank _God_. He hated it short. It reminded him of, well. Not so pleasant things.

“I was wondering if you’d maybe want to…” 

Eliot threads his fingers through Quentins hair near his scalp and pulls, listening to Q’s lovely, sharp intake of breath. “What were you wondering? Enlighten me.”

Quentin takes Eliot’s tie in hand and pulls him down, pressing his lips to Eliot’s. When Eliot kisses him back, hand at the small of his back, Quentin melts into him, warm and pliant and giving, and Eliot thinks for the millionth time that he has no idea how he got so lucky. He doesn’t say it to Q because that inevitably leads to Quentin sputtering and protesting and telling him _he’s the lucky one because have you seen yourself, Eliot?_. And yeah, Eliot has seen himself. He knows all about the veneer he’s created, and it’s not unpleasant. He knows how Quentin loves that piece of him and all the rest of it, all of Eliot’s self-loathing and addictive tendencies, all the times he’s broken down and disappointed everyone around him. He knows how Quentin takes all of those aspects of who he is and cherishes each one, holds onto and accepts all of it. Quentin has seen an entire lifetime of Eliot, and he wasn’t even swayed when Eliot told him he was foolish for wanting a relationship. He saved Eliot’s life. He died for Eliot and came back, and he’s stayed, all this time. Quentin’s constant love is better than the very best of magic. 

He kisses Eliot, warm and silky-soft and sweet, one hand at the back of his neck and the other falling into a familiar tut that loosens his tie and undoes the buttons of his vest. There’s a spark that lights whenever Quentin touches him, when he does magic, when he leans toward Eliot, smiling and dimpled. And he, miraculously, always, _always_ wants Eliot, always seems just as eager as the first time they’d kissed, when he’d taken Eliot’s hand and placed it on his neck and Eliot thought, _oh, so this is what I’ve been missing._ The flame grows with each movement of Quentin’s soft mouth, tongue against his, teeth pulling at his lower lip, and Eliot wants, wants, wants so much—and Quentin simply _gives._ He moans into Eliot’s mouth, shameless, hands suddenly everywhere, tugging at Eliot’s clothes. 

“I don’t know how you—” Quentin kisses him again and hums as Eliot tugs at his jeans, unzipping them, palming his stiffening cock. “I don’t know how you—wear all these clothes while you’re fucking—traveling. Jesus Christ, it’s fucking ridiculous—and you look so _hot_.” Quentin sounds both baffled and turned on, which is exactly how Eliot wants him.

Eliot grins and kisses him, tongue darting into Quentin’s mouth, pulling his shirt up and off. “I wore these clothes _because_ I look hot. And I wanted to seduce my boyfriend. Or I wanted you to seduce me. Either way.”

“Your what now?” Quentin kisses him again, desperate, needy.

“My boyfriend.”

Quentin smiles, dimples appearing. He takes Eliot’s breath away. Eliot is _always_ amazed at how beautiful Quentin is—broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, lean and muscular. Q is the one who’s gorgeous, a fact that Quentin just barely accepts these days. Eliot might be polished and fashionable, and he has fucking great hair. But Quentin is without artifice; guileless in his beauty. 

Quentin laughs and starts undoing Eliot’s belt. “You always look hot. All the time. Ungodly fucking attractive, and you’re _completely ridiculous._ ” 

He catches Quentin’s wrist and holds it still, and when he looks at Q, his eyes are dark and wanting, dancing with need. “Slow down. Let me enjoy you.”

Eliot tips Quentin’s head back and presses their lips together again, this time deepening the kiss, tongue searching and tasting, pushing his body, hard and hungry, against Quentin’s. Quentin lets go of a little whimper, his body going a bit boneless in Eliot’s arms. Eliot brushes his lips over Quentin’s jaw and runs his hands over the soft hair of his forearms. He catches Q’s wrists and brings his arms up over his head, shucking off his shirt and throwing it to the floor. And he slowly undoes Quentin’s jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers to reveal Q’s lovely, flushed cock, hard already. Eliot grins, chuckling a little and moving behind Quentin to wrap one arm around his chest and another around his dick. Quentin’s breath hitches in his throat.

“God, El,” Quentin says, shivering. “Fuck, I love your hands.” He loops his fingers over Eliot’s as he starts to stroke Quentin’s cock.

“You look so pretty, baby,” Eliot says, low, lips pressed to Quentin’s ear. He takes in the muscles moving in Q’s back, his throaty moans as he bucks a little into Eliot’s hand. “And already so hard for me. You want it so bad.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, a bit dreamy. He moans as Eliot starts working him harder. “Oh—El—”

“You mind if I keep my clothes on right now, baby? You look so fucking gorgeous, and I want you just like this.”

“Yeah,” he says, nuzzling at the side of Eliot’s face.

“You always love me,” Eliot says, something he wouldn’t have been able to even _think_ five years ago. 

“I do,” Quentin murmurs, titling his head back, begging to be kissed. Eliot has gotten a crick in his neck kissing Quentin like this before, but he’s not complaining. He likes wrapping himself around Q and loving him like this, protective, taking back all the things he lost when Quentin died. It’s hot and intimate and powerful to kiss him like this, his hands on Quentin’s body, feeling his warmth, his body, the life pulsing through him.

“You’ve got such a nice cock. Your beautiful body. Does everything I want.” Eliot is nibbling at Quentin’s lips and still stroking him, slow, slow, slow. Quentin’s breath is coming ragged now, his eyes fluttering clothes, his body like putty in Eliot’s hands. He lets his grip loosen and brushes his fingers down the underside of Quentin’s cock, down to the base and back him. Eliot shivers. 

“Oh my God—” Quentin laughs a little, moaning and tipping his head back so his hair tickles Eliot’s shoulder.

Eliot turns him around and kisses him, tongues sliding together, bringing Quentin’s tender, lovely body into his arms, fitting him into that Quentin-shaped space.

“I was thinking maybe you’d want to fuck me. It’s been a while—but I want you,” Eliot says, pushing Quentin’s mussed hair back behind his ear. He’ll admit—he’s been thinking about this since the morning when he was watching Quentin get packed. He just can’t get enough of super-concentrated slightly-nervous Quentin. It’s an inexplicable turn-on, so that pre-travel preparations have become something akin to foreplay. And Eliot wants _everything_.

Quentin, lovely and mussed and red-cheeked, breaks into a smile, gorgeous and dimpled. “Um. Okay. Yeah.” 

One of the things he loves best about Quentin is his response to sex, and it hasn’t gotten any less adorable in the past four years. Whenever it came to _asking a guy to fuck him_ in the many, many times he had sex with people he barely knew, none of them were _flustered_ and _shy_ and _delighted_ when it came to fucking Eliot. And it’s not that Quentin isn’t an intrepid explorer by Eliot’s side in plumbing the depths of _any kind of sex_ they can try—in fact, Quentin is absolutely shameless about what he enjoys, and his interests are beautifully varied. That air of innocence Eliot saw in Quentin the first time they met was a total lie. But when it comes to Eliot asking for something—and he does, plenty—Q has a ‘who? me?’ reaction, like he still can’t quite believe he got so lucky. In the many hundreds of times they’ve fucked in every way imaginable, Quentin still seems to think that he’s not the one giving Eliot everything. 

“My turn to get you all worked up,” he says, lifting his eyebrows. He pushes Eliot back on the bed, which just about takes Eliot’s breath away. He’s smaller than Eliot but _strong_ , and his hands are already falling into the familiar tut that undoes the buttons on Eliot’s shirt. The button’s pop open, and Q is looking up and down Eliot’s body, eyes dark and full of that lust that sits just below the surface of Quentin’s kind-but-biting personality. Eliot is the one who gets to see this. This belongs to him. 

Quentin tosses Eliot’s shirt aside with zero regard for wrinkle-prevention. He’s crawling on top of Eliot, straddled over his thighs, cock hard and heavy between his legs, a bit of precome at the tip. He’s been worked up for a while now, but he’s all patience now, unbuckling Eliot with surety and shucking him out of his pants with the aid of a translocation spell. Eliot watches Quentin’s hands, the air suffused with his magic. He’s so much more confident now than he ever was, falling into movements naturally now, not stopping to double-check or question himself.

The pants appear, folded neatly, on top of the luggage rack next to the balcony door.

“You could have folded my shirt,” Eliot says mildly, despite the heat blooming inside as Quentin straddles him again, his cock lined up with Eliot’s, throbbing hard and hot as Quentin’s hips hitch forward, sparks flying through Eliot’s belly and thighs at the brush of skin on skin, the promise of what’s to come. 

“Hm, no. I like messing up your shirts,” Quentin says, brushing Eliot’s curls away from his forehead. 

“Next time, you can mess it up even more. Leave it on—come all over it—no half measures—”

“Perv,” Quentin says, quieting Eliot with a kiss, tongue slipping delicately between his lips. His hands roam over Eliot’s bare skin, fingers tracing over his collarbone, down the line of his arm, hands brushing over his pecs. He whimpers, soft, into Q’s mouth, his body thrumming with his boundless want for Quentin as Q rolls his nipples between his fingers and bites at his lip, kissing him deep and hungry now, moaning as he bucked forward against Eliot’s cock. 

“Guilty—” Eliot groans, rubbing his hands over Quentin’s thighs, arching up against him, desperately turned on. “—as charged.”

“Yeah, next time, I’ll come all over your fucking shirt and tie—but I wouldn’t want to ruin a vest.” Quentin keeps kissing him as he rambles about coming all over Eliot’s clothes. Eliot is laughing against Q’s mouth, his hands buried in Quentin’s hair while Quentin mumbles about his nice wool trousers from Harrods and what exactly he wants to do to them. “You think I’m _joking_. You wait and see—I’ll go in your closet when you least expect it—”

“You wouldn’t.” Eliot laughs again at the image, laughs at Quentin being fucking ridiculous. Sex was never this fun with anyone else—never this hot and joyful and uncomplicated in its goodness. Quentin’s mouth is moving over Eliot’s jaw now, his tongue darting out over Eliot’s skin, tasting him. 

“How do you want me? Like, besides coming all over your shirt?”

“Just like this,” Eliot says. “I wanna see your face. Your beautiful face.” 

“Mm, okay,” Q says, a little blissed out, hands still wandering over Eliot’s body, finally roaming down to his cock and stroking him a little, lazy, languid strokes. He closes his eyes and arches up into Quentin’s fist. Too soon, he’s pulled his fingers away, but he’s moving a pillow beneath Eliot and moving between his legs, gentle and patient and slow. All the things Eliot had wanted from someone, in secret, for so long; things he never got to have with anyone else. He hears Quentin before he looks up and sees him, performing the tuts for cleaning and protection, then the spell to slick his fingers. He’s confident, strong, and stunning, eyes flashing with hunger in the afternoon light as he parts Eliot’s legs. Quentin spreads Eliot open and presses his fingers behind his balls, dragging them down to the tight ring of muscle, pressing and circling and massaging until he slips a finger inside. Quentin groans, and his eyes flutter shut like he’s the one getting fingered. Eliot sighs, relaxing and pressing down against him as Quentin begins to work him open, dragging his finger in and out.

“That’s good, baby, yeah,” Eliot hears himself murmuring, brushing his fingers against Quentin’s free arm as he dips a second finger inside, crooking them up to brush against Eliot’s prostrate, sending jolts of pleasure up Eliot’s spine, lighting up his nerve endings, making him gasp and push against Quentin’s hand, wantonly. “C’mon, I can take more than that. C’mon.”

“Bossy,” Quentin says, but he slips a third finger inside, twisting and fucking into him expertly as he locks eyes with Eliot, watching him with interest as his fingers nudge against Eliot’s prostrate again, teasing for a moment and moving away, the angle changed. Eliot’s cock aches, pressed tight to his belly, dripping now.

“Yeah, I am. Bossy. You like it.” Eliot pants and groans, spreads his legs wider as Quentin works into him. Really, nothing about Quentin should undo him like this after four years of (mostly) monogamy, but he feels more or less like he might lose his mind with Quentin’s fingers inside of him, moving in a steady rhythm as he feels himself relax and give. He lets his eyes close and gives himself over to the sensation, savoring the feeling of heated agony in his painfully hard dick. Quentin fingers him, deep and slow, until Eliot is bucking up from the bed and _begging_.

“Fuck, come on, baby. I need you inside me. Been thinking about it all day. Knew I’d get you here and you’d want to fuck—and I want you—inside me.” Eliot knows he’s babbling, but it seems to be working like he wanted because Quentin is losing his pace, pulling his fingers away and— _fuck_ —diving between his legs, spreading him open and licking at Eliot’s hole. Eliot lets out an animal sound, a jagged howl. He half-thinks he should have put up silencing wards, but right now, he gives zero fucks. Q is licking into him and _groaning_ like this is all he fucking wants, and Eliot suddenly feels certain that if he focused on it enough, he’d come all over himself and ruin his annivesary plan of coming on Quentin’s cock. 

“Baby, come on,” Eliot pleads. When Quentin’s like this, he has a hard time actually _hearing_ anything, and Eliot idly considers just jacking off while Quentin eats him out. His hips are rolling against Quentin’s tongue, pleasure coiling through him, tight and hot. Might not be such a bad idea but—Eliot started this day wanting a good fuck, and he’s planning on fulfilling that need, by Gods. He moves and tugs at Quentin’s hair, gasping when Quentin moans, breath hot against his opening. _Fuck._

But Quentin comes back to himself and kisses his way up Eliot’s body to Eliot’s lips. Eliot pulls him down into a deep kiss and tastes himself on Quentin’s lips, mixed with the mild slipperiness of the oil. Quentin is grunting into Eliot’s mouth, and then he’s pulling up, conjuring more lube from the air and stroking it over his own cock and then Eliot’s. 

“Baby, fuck me, please,” Eliot whispers. “I’m gonna lose my mind waiting for you.”

Quentin laughs. “You’re high maintenance, you know that?”

“Yes, darling,” Eliot says. “So are you.”

Quentin smiles at that, and presses the head of his cock against Eliot’s entrance until it gives, letting the head of his cock slip inside. Quentin gasps and lets out a long, guttural, broken sound as he presses inside. Eliot grips at the sheets, at Quentin’s arms, wraps his legs around Q as he sinks in all the way, cradled between Eliot’s legs, like he was made to fit. That’s how Quentin is, Eliot thinks—created to fit wherever Eliot wants him. It’s spine-meltingly good, the perfect stretch, that sensation of being full and open, open, open. Quentin’s hips snap forward reflexively like he can’t control himself. He grab’s Eliot’s hips hard and lets out another low, keening sound. There are beads of sweat over his forehead, strands of his hair stuck against his skin, his mouth open and cheeks flushed deep red. He holds himself inside Eliot, barely moving, even as Eliot wraps his legs around him, gasping and beckoning him forward. But Quentin is beautiful like this, dreamy-eyed and so deep in his pleasure that he can barely think. 

“Fuck, Eliot,” Quentin says, sounding absolutely _wrecked_. “Fuck, you feel so good.” Quentin’s hips hitch forward again, and he wraps oil-slick fingers around Eliot’s cock, stroking gently and sending pounding, insistent shockwaves through every inch of him.

“Tell me,” he says, breathily.

Quentin’s hips rock back and hitch forward involuntarily, and Quentin hisses at the sensation. “God. So fucking tight around my cock, so good. Hot and slick. I could come inside you right now, baby. So good—” 

“Yeah? I like it when you fuck me like this,” Eliot murmurs. “You’re so good at making me feel amazing.”

“Oh—Eliot—”

“Come on and fuck me, baby. You’re so good for me, doing just what I want—”

Quentin bites down on his lip and sighs as he starts moving with slow, deliberate thrusts, his hand coming up to grip Eliot’s cock again and stroke him in time with their fucking. Eliot is shaking and groaning, the back of his neck prickled and overheated with the depth of this pleasure, being full to the hilt and surrounded by the pressure of Quentin’s slippery fist. 

“Harder, baby, come on—”

Quentin lets out a little huff of air, almost like a laugh, and he fixes his eyes on Eliot’s, the hint of a grin on his face. He strokes Eliot harder with his deft fingers, his lovely magician’s hands, all the while driving into him, thrusting jerkily and gasping, a pink flush rising over his chest. Eliot whimpers when Quentin shifts, finding the angle to hit right at his prostrate, sending sharp, glittering white-hot heat through him, coiling and twisting, pulling him ever closer to his release. All Eliot can hear is the slick-wet-filthy sounds of their fucking, Quentin’s contented groaning and panting as he speeds up, driving in hard and quick, chasing his own need. He loses himself, sinking into the sensation, the clench of his muscles against Quentin’s cock, the thrill of his fingernails digging into his hips, the slide of his fingers along Eliot’s cock. Quentin leans down and kisses him, sloppy and frantic, Eliot’s cock dragging between their bodies, Quentin’s hand still loosely wrapped around it. He moans into Q’s mouth, biting at his lip, lifting his legs a little higher and dragging his heels along the back of Quentin’s thighs. He’s all of the best things in Eliot’s life; he’s everything.

When Q pulls back again, fucking him deep and fast on his knees, Eliot watches his face—and it’s so—he’s so beautiful with his eyes fluttering shut, blissed out and lost as he fucks Eliot. Quentin is moaning louder now, hips stuttering, his body shaking. Eliot is close, hanging on by a thread, steadying the pleasure coursing through his body by focusing on Q’s face, the willowy, sharp lines of his body, the way he shivers when he bottoms out inside of Eliot, the way he shudders when Eliot runs his hands over Quentin’s ribs and up to his pebbled nipples. He knows when Quentin is close by the way his eyes close and the rhythm of his fucking becomes frenzied, his sounds louder and less controlled.

“El—I’m gonna—oh _fuck_ —” 

“Come on, my love, give it to me… come inside me.” Eliot says, rocking his hips up to feel Quentin as deep as he can. Quentin’s hand falls away from his cock, and he grab’s Eliot’s hips, driving into him as Eliot grips himself hard and strokes himself until he comes with a shout, spilling warmth over his hand and stomach, clenching against Quentin’s cock. Quentin moans, long and low and ragged, hips snapping forward as he comes, pulsing inside of him, saying Eliot’s name again and again.

Quentin falls forward, fingers tangling in Eliot’s hair, his mouth pressed against Eliot’s jawline. “Love you so much, El.”

Eliot smiles. “Love you too.”

Those words never came easily to Eliot. They weren’t words he ever heard. It’s taken him so much time to get to this place, to the easy comfort of loving someone and letting himself be loved. 

Quentin taught him this, showed Eliot this. Made it all real. They lie together for a long time, breathing heavy, tangled and sweaty and probably in need of a shower.

“I still want ice cream,” Quentin says, after a while. 

Eliot laughs. “Fine. A small one.”

They’re on vacation. Why the fuck not?


	2. Under the burden/of solitude,/under the burden/of dissatisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin is worried about flash mobs.

~Quentin~

When Quentin wakes up, the sun is coming in bright through the windows, and Eliot is singing. That’s his first hint. Something is up.

It’s not that Eliot doesn’t sing. It’s that he doesn’t wake up before eight in the morning on a different coast, fucking singing Peter Gabriel. Or The Magnetic Fields. Whichever version he has in mind. Knowing Eliot, it could be either. Or both.

“The book of love is long and boring, no one can lift the damn thing… it’s full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing…” There was a clanking around in the bathroom, the unmistakable sound of Eliot going through the many products it took to _be Eliot_. It had gotten better, in Quentin’s opinion, since they moved into their place in Brooklyn. Quentin had never said a word about Eliot’s product-and-accessory addiction, but over time, the deliveries from Sephora and YesStyle have diminished from weekly to once every month or so. Eliot just claims he’d ‘streamlined his skincare routine’ and ‘settled on an appropriate amount of eyeliner for a man his age.’ He’s also stopped wearing quite as many layers every single day. A patterned shirt in place of a three piece suit, a cardigan sometimes in lieu of a vest. He’s started stripping away the trappings of that less secure person. He isn’t the boy Quentin met, so coolly above-it-all, so closed off, so intent on making an impression. Certainly, Eliot is always going to be impeccably dressed, well-groomed, and put together. He’s always going to smell incredible, like cedar and sandalwood. Intoxicating. And he’d never shake off that need to _show off_ just a little.

“But I love it when you read to me... and you can read me anything,” Eliot sings. The water is running, and Quentin thinks of Eliot’s cheeks when they’re smooth after shaving.

Eliot has changed so much, hasn’t he? They both have. In a way Quentin didn’t think either of them could. The memories from their time at the mosaic come now in short flashes, more like impressions. Even with the vaguest of recollections, Quentin knows that, in a way, they were just coping when they lived that life. For all those years, the mosaic quest had dictated almost everything they did. It was a beautiful life, full of so many beautiful things. It had given them the opportunity to fall in love, to know each other, to have a family—but they were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Here, in these blessedly uneventful years following Quentin’s return from the dead, he and Eliot have been allowed to live normal lives without all the questing bullshit that battered and abused them for so long. 

Quentin snuggles down into the sheets and texts Kady to send her a picture of Walter. He’s vaguely listening to Eliot singing, and his cheeks feel a little hot because Eliot’s voice... well, Quentin is the one who gets to hear it every day. It’s still fucking thrilling. A million guys would give anything to be with Eliot, to have his attention. And Quentin has it. He knows Eliot isn’t just singing for himself; he’s singing for Quentin. He’s always loved an audience. And his voice is different when he thinks no one is listening. Right now, he knows Quentin is. Or hopes he is, anyway. 

_Why_ is he in such a singing mood?

“The book of love has music in it; in fact that’s where music comes from... some of it is just transcendental... some of it is just really dumb.” The splashing of water; the sink turning off. 

Quentin smiles and watches as the bubbles pop up on his screen to show that Kady is crafting a text. 

**Kady** : tell your boyfriend that his dog keeps getting on my chair. i know eliot lets him get on your bed and shit but i’m not running a vet clinic 

A picture pops up right after the message. It’s Walter, with his hopelessly optimistic Retriever smile, trying to harass Kady’s dog, Henry, into playing. Quentin remembers when she had announced she was naming her puppy Henry Fogg since they ‘were always cleaning up Fogg’s shit for him.’ Everyone had laughed, a bit darkly, but the name stuck. 

**Quentin** : Your girlfriend is the one who corrupted my dog. Please take this up with her

Quentin scrolls through Reddit, not really looking at the headlines, scrolling through videos of dogs and reports on the economy and meditations on YA fantasy literature. Another text pops up. 

**Julia** : I did not corrupt your dog. I thought he was already allowed on your furniture.

Quentin starts laughing and pulls the covers over his head, reveling for a moment in the simple joy of being on vacation, being away. Of having a boyfriend who is—for _some fucking reason_ —crazy about him. Of having friends who he loves, who love him. 

**Quentin** : admit your wrongdoings, Julia 

Julia sends back a GIF from ‘Brooklyn 99’ that Quentin feels is completely irrelevant. He’s about to try to send something back, but the doorway to the bathroom opens, and Eliot appears in the doorway, wearing just his boxer briefs. Quentin puts down his phone. This is better than anything on the internet. “You showered without me.” 

“No, no. I shaved. I’m waiting on a shower.”

“Any particular reason?”

Eliot shrugs. “None at all. I have no plans. Nothing involving you.” 

“You’re a liar,” Quentin says, grinning. He wants his hands on Eliot. He wants Eliot covering him, inside of him. He aches for him, and he’s only ten feet away. It’s vacation. They don’t have to be anywhere. “Come back to bed.”

“If you insist,” Eliot drawls. He saunters to the bed and falls into Quentin’s arms.

***

Eliot is putting on a striped linen shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and Quentin is just lying there, watching him, hair wet from the shower, fanned out over the pillow below him. He’s achy and wrung out from the _three times_ they’ve fucked since they arrived in San Francisco less than twenty-four hours ago. Not that they have an insignificant amount of sex at home, but they’re grown people with jobs. After Quentin has spent the day mending magical objects, and Eliot has arrived home after traveling through several different time zones to maintain international portals, they often opt for dinner and Netflix and lazy, slow sex a few times a week. They’re _young_ , but not like, three-times-a-day young.

Eliot is sort of _radiating_ sex right now in a like, sort of frantic way. Quentin is _not_ complaining. But he files that away to think about when he’s walking around solo today. And what exactly is Eliot going to be doing while he’s on his own? Vacation-related grand gestures, if Quentin has to guess. If there’s a flash mob, Quentin is walking right back through the portal that opens in Brooklyn. Eliot can figure out where he’s gone. Quentin thinks flash mobs are cringeworthy and embarrassing, both for the performers and onlookers, but Eliot keeps talking about an all-magicians flash-mob, and Quentin thinks that might be his actual worst nightmare. He knows that Eliot keeps bringing it up partly to annoy him, but also partly because he thinks it’s a _great idea_.

Eliot is still humming to himself as he dabs a bit of cologne behind his ears. It’s absurd how fucking gorgeous he is. Just like, it should be an actual crime because, even after four years, Quentin can’t focus on anything else when Eliot is in the room. If Quentin could actually drive a car (he can’t), he wouldn’t be able to do it with Eliot in the passenger seat. He’d be a fucking hazard to Quentin’s health. Like texting and driving. 

Quentin is just wearing—wait for it—a black t-shirt and jeans. He knows he should be a little more inventive, but Eliot seems to like how tragically unfashionable Quentin is, so he just doesn’t bother most of the time. Besides, El gets to dress him when they go out, at home or on vacation. He’s had clothes _made_ for Quentin—navy blue and black shirts embroidered with little patterns like dragonflies or spirals, so faint they’re barely visible. Eliot has had trousers made, too, each impossibly soft against Quentin’s skin. He always has Eliot choose his clothes when they go out; it’s like, weirdly hot that El _wants_ to dress him up. It makes him feel like he’s wrapped tight in Eliot’s embrace, like he’s cherished. It occurred to him maybe two years ago that Eliot is the only one who gets close enough to discern the patterns on his shirts or the satiny texture of the material. That made it better.

T-shirts and jeans are for the day. Tonight, he’ll do what Eliot wants. And the night after. Until they drive down the coast. He sort of expects they’ll be in bed most of the time once they reach Big Sur because neither one of them really _likes_ hiking. So. You know. Probably more sex, not as much getting dressed. Quentin is fine with that.

“What’s the plan today, Q?” Eliot asks, adjusting his collar and watching Quentin from the mirror. Eliot’s ass looks ridiculously good, like, all the time. But especially right now.

“The, um, Alcatraz tour starts at like, eleven. I can do that. It should take like two-ish hours. And we could meet at the Ferry Building where they have this big open food market thing. And then—there’s the City Lights bookstore. It’s famous.” 

“Breakfast before? There’s a place with pastries and coffee two blocks away, toward North Beach.” 

“Mmm, yeah. Let’s do that. Coffee. Pastries. Then we can walk down to the water and check out the sea lions.”

Quentin sees Eliot’s face crack into a grin while he adjusts the top buttons of his shirt. “Absolutely.” He doesn’t try to hide the amusement in his voice, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Hey. I mean. We’re in San Francisco. I’m going to see the fucking sea lions.”

“Of course you are.”

“Goddammit, Eliot.” Quentin groans and wonders _why_ it’s still so hot when Eliot teases him.

***

After breakfast, they stroll hand in hand toward the Wharf, taking in the distinct feeling of the cool, gray morning in the city. Quentin breathes in. The air feels fresher than it is in New York, aided perhaps by the sea air blowing in from the Pacific. It’s always breezy, wind racing through the rolling streets and hidden green places, past the Victorian-era homes in greens and blues and purples. When they’re at a crosswalk, Eliot bends down and kisses Quentin lightly behind the ear, sending a sweet shiver down his spine. 

“What was that for?”

Eliot shrugs. “Felt like it.” He’s wearing sunglasses, so Quentin can’t see his eyes. “And you smell good.”

“No, you,” Quentin says, leaning up to draw Eliot in for a kiss. His hand tangles in Quentin’s hair reflexively, and he tugs just a bit, which makes a warm tingle spread all through his body. 

They walk along the pier when they get there; it’s more crowded with people who clearly aren’t locals, all of whom are trying to snap pictures of sea lions and the bridge in the distance. The crowds cause Eliot to grouse a bit about tourists from the Midwest with their high-rise khaki shorts from 1995 and their penchant for waiting in line at the Hard Rock Cafe. It makes Quentin roll his eyes. Like Quentin and Eliot are somehow better than that because... why? Because they live in New York and go to independent coffee shops with punny names? Or because Eliot is so fussy that he gets _all_ of his clothes made (and some of Quentin’s too)? 

“I know it’s cheesy, Eliot,” Quentin finally snaps. “But just let me enjoy the sea lions.”

Eliot takes off his sunglasses and looks at Quentin, cups the side of his face, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Sorry, baby. I’m kind of a dick. Reminds me of my family.”

“I’m your family now, El,” Quentin says, just because it’s true and it’s real. That’s what they are to each other. It was true when they shared a life the first time. It is, he thinks, maybe a greater truth now. Eliot has never pushed him away since they’ve been together here, in this timeline. Quentin doesn’t mention that—ever—because it _hurts_ on both sides. And they’re done with that kind of pain.

Eliot looks maybe a little stricken at Quentin’s words, and he kisses him lightly. “Yeah. You are. You’re right.” 

He loops an arm around Quentin while he takes pictures of the sea lions. They are extremely fat and lazy in the sun, lounging like there’s no where on Earth they’d rather be, barking at each other occasionally, drowning out the din of tourists behind them. 

They wander a while through the tourist-trap shops before Quentin’s Alcatraz tour. Quentin buys a notebook for Julia and a pair of white gold earrings for Margo, knowing he’ll be able to enchant them to look like axes due to the exact composition of the metal. He’s gotten good at little transformation spells. Ever since he decided to actually lean into the small, detailed magic he excels at, he’s found out things like that. Surprises along the way.

“You need to get something for Kady.”

Quentin huffs. “Well. She’s hard to shop for. Isn’t getting Julia something enough? They practically live together.”

“There’s a magicians’ store near City Lights.”

“Oh yeah? You did your research, huh?”

Eliot nods, smiling, eyes twinkling a little. “Yeah, I think you’ll like it. I know the guy who runs it—old friend. We’ll have time before dinner.”

“Our special dinner? And your like, grand gestures?”

Eliot hums noncommittally, trying to play it cool, Quentin thinks. He thinks he ought to look around to see if a flash mob is starting. Thankfully—not yet. “Your ferry leaves in ten,” Eliot says. They sit on a bench for a while, just looking out at the water.

Quentin kisses Eliot before he boards the ferry to Alcatraz. And then, right as he pulls away, Eliot catches his hand and draws him in, kissing him again, tongue in his mouth, filthy and deep, in front of every khaki-clad tourist at Fisherman’s Wharf. Quentin laughs against his mouth and buries his head against Eliot’s shoulder. He’s a little flushed, sinking into that hot-sweet feeling he gets when El is being over-the-top with Quentin in public. He’s mostly just proud to be _seen_ with someone as beautiful and talented and _everything_ as Eliot, but he knows it’s different for Eliot. Every time they’re together on a date or holding hands walking the dog, Eliot is rejecting the toxic narrative he heard when he was growing up. Not only that. He’s rewriting the stories he made up about himself—that he was the pretty boy who didn’t want anyone for more than a night, or the brokenhearted king sequestered in Fillory, hidden away from the possibility of any meaningful relationship, or the thousand other people he’s been or tried to be. 

Right now, he’s just being. So is Quentin. Even if he would rather not have twenty tourists watching him make out with his boyfriend on a dock in San Francisco, Alcatraz looming in the distance. 

He waves to Eliot from the ferry. Eliot blows him a kiss.

***

Eliot is as placid as ever when Quentin meets him for lunch at the Ferry Building. The sun is high and the sky blue over the Bay Bridge. The fog has burned off, and the day is warm, almost hot, but that lovely breeze is just right. Enough to make it a perfect day to sit outside. After they get curry for lunch, they sit and watch people as they pass by, cars as they cross the bridge. 

After he finishes his lunch, Quentin pokes at Eliot. “What are we doing tonight?”

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.” 

He raises his hand to Eliot’s hair, plays with the curls as the base of his neck. “You know what I asked. I want to know what we’re doing. We just had lunch, and it’s officially the afternoon—so.”

“So, we’re going to walk to the bookstore. And then we can go to the magicians’ store. And then—take a nap if you want. And then—” Eliot smiles primly. “We should get some chocolate from one of those kiosks inside before anything else.”

Quentin whacks him on the arm. “C’mon. Tell me.”

“I will not. It’s a surprise.”

Quentin sighs. “Does it involve flash mobs?” 

“Uh, no, Quentin. It does not involve a flash mob. It’s a surprised for _you_. To celebrate our anniversary, which has been a low-key occasion for the past two years since I struck out year one.”

“There was nothing low-key about taking me on an all-day wine tour in France. God.” 

“Disaster. I don’t often say I’m glad I quit drinking wine. I miss wine. But watching you get sick behind a five-hundred-year-old monastery… I can just think about that when I miss drinking.” 

“Jesus. Then I got norovirus after that—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“—and we couldn’t get that portal home. We had to _fly_.”

“When I said, ‘don’t remind me,’ I mean, really. Don’t.” Eliot starts laughing. “And I kept drinking. I thought—you know I really thought you were going to leave me.”

“Then you’re crazy. I was gone on you for— _God_ , so long.”

“Yeah, since when?”

Quentin rolls his eyes. He and El rehash this every few months, it seems. But Quentin’s never really—well. There’s an extra truth Quentin hasn’t really mentioned. It’s embarrassing. “You know,” he says, flushing.

“It’s important. Enlighten me.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Again,” Eliot says. He pulls Quentin into him and strokes his hair. 

Quentin has told him that he couldn’t really put Eliot out of his mind after they slept together the first time. That, despite everything with Alice, is the absolute truth. He was pretty much sold after he got Eliot naked. But.

“Well. If it’s _important_ ,” Quentin says, “I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You see, I went with Julia to this interview I had for Yale—”

Eliot starts laughing. 

“Shush. I’m telling a tale.”

“Fine. You spin your yarn, Q.”

“It’s the truth. Okay. So. I went to this interview for this stupid philosophy program at Yale. And this guy was totally dead. Oreos overdose.” 

“I recall.”

“Lemme finish. And Jane Chatwin handed me _Fillory and Further: Book Six._ And I followed the title page as it flew through that garden, all like, dried up and gray and kind of like… everything in my life at that point in time. Like, just. So blank and depressed and endlessly fucking pointless. And I walked through, and it was—it was summer. The sky was blue—like this—and I saw the Brakebills sign and this very long person lying on top of it. And I walked toward the sign, and I saw you. And you said—‘I’m Eliot. You’re late.’ And yeah. That was pretty much it. I was a goner.”

“Nuh-uh. We’ve talked about that day a thousand times. You were gone on _Alice_.”

“See, El. You’re not wrong. I loved Alice. She’s still one of my best friends. But I dated her for like, two and a half months before she Niffined out. And nothing was the same with her after that. I was a foolish kid. And yeah, I can’t lie about that.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“The second I saw _you_ , Eliot—the first person I saw when I got to Brakebills—I thought to myself, ‘This has to be a fantasy. I must be dreaming because this is a vision straight out of a dream I had,’ and it wasn’t like a _general audiences_ rated dream. It was you. Always you. I dreamed about you that first night. I wanted you, but I thought you were way out of my league. I mean, you pretty much _are_ —”

“You’re ridiculous. I was trying to get you into bed from literally the second you stepped out of that bush—”

“Yeah. Well. I didn’t say I was, like, _perceptive_. I had no idea you were serious. I thought—maybe—maybe you might try to kiss me after we got those fucking books from the hedges.”

“Emphasis on fucking.”

Quentin laughs. “Yeah they were really going at it.” He pauses, sighing. “God, I could have killed Kady.”

“You _never_ told me that,” Eliot says, disbelieving. 

Quentin shrugs. “Ask Kady. I told her.”

Eliot is— _Jesus Christ_ —getting out his phone and shooting off a text. 

“Oh my God. I didn’t mean literally.” 

“Well, you never _told me_.” Eliot is smiling, giddy. He might be _blushing_. But that doesn’t seem right. Sometimes, Quentin still thinks Eliot is above it all, cool and nonchalant. It’s easy to believe that, to fall into that old way of thinking about him. But he’s just El. At his core, he is not cold, not shut off. He is endlessly generous, full of wonder, at least when it comes to Quentin. And so weirdly _amazed_ that Quentin loves him. Which is—well, Quentin can’t wrap his head around it.

“I pretty much knew you wouldn’t believe me, El. That’s… we don’t talk about that time much. I know all of those years are like, fraught. But. It’s true. I just never thought you’d want _me_.”

There’s a _ding_ , and Eliot laughs when he looks at his phone. “She says you’re telling the truth, and we’re both losers.”

“Good. You believe me now?”

“Considering it,” Eliot says. “Bookstore?”

***

Quentin keeps watching Eliot as they walk. For one thing, he just likes to watch Eliot. He also still has that restless energy that he gets before making something happen. Eliot has always been making shit happen, as long as Quentin has known him. He’s got a way of doing that. It’s just that usually Quentin doesn’t do so well with things that happen. He’s not usually that keen on surprises, either. So this is like, super out of his comfort zone. 

“Uh—” Quentin starts.

“No. I’m not telling you anything until after six. Stop asking.”

“But—”

“I promise there are no flash mobs. No banners. Or crowds. Margo isn’t hiding in the bushes. Well.” Eliot takes Quentin’s hand when they stop at a crosswalk. “She might be. You never know.”

Quentin leans his head against Eliot’s shoulder as the cars and buses pass by. “I’m just—”

“In your head about it.” Eliot looks down at him. His eyes look so green today, little flecks of gold at the centers of each iris. “I know you. When I wanted to do something special for _you_ , I factored in your essential Quentin-ness. And I know you pretty well. I think.”

“Little bit by now,” Quentin says. 

“Do you trust me?”

Quentin nods. Maybe. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Then put it out of your head. Let’s go look at books and magic shit.”

They walk together across the street and up a little alleyway that leads to the City Lights Bookstore. It’s big—bigger than Quentin thought. And there’s a quality to it that feels heavy, a place woven into San Francisco’s fabric, seventy-five years of art and literature, a writers’ haven, a center for queer culture and equality when the world was far more afraid. When they walk inside, the rows of books have recommendations from the staff, little cards proclaiming the merits of books of poetry and experimental novels. It’s cramped, almost, because there are so _many_ books. Quentin picks up an illustrated version of _The Hobbit_ , a new novel by Brandon Sanderson, and a collector’s edition of _Howl and Other Poems_ by Allen Ginsberg. It feels fitting to have a copy of the book that City Lights published and defended in the ‘obscenity’ trial launched against them. 

“Big gay history,” Eliot says, spotting the book at the top of Quentin’s pile. 

“That’s, like, San Francisco’s thing,” Quentin says, putting his selection of books on the counter. Eliot has a brown paper bag that looks like it has a book in it. Quentin eyes him suspiciously while the cashier rings up his books. Eliot, contrary to popular belief, _does_ read, but he’s a heathen and uses his phone. “What’s that?” 

“Nothing to concern yourself with. Buy your books.” Eliot lifts his eyebrows and hides the book in his jacket.

Quentin grumbles as they walk out of the store, but he knows there’s no use in trying to get Eliot to reveal anything to him. He tells his brain to calm the fuck down—not a simple task, even after four continuous years of intensive talk therapy and EMDR trauma processing. He _does_ trust Eliot. He just doesn’t trust him to not be like, way more extra than Quentin can sometimes handle. A book is good. That’s a good sign. He reminds himself that Eliot _does_ know him, that he loves Quentin, that this is a trip for both of them, and he’s probably telling the truth when he says he doesn’t have something overly elaborate plan. Probably. He takes a deep breath and walks with Eliot, arm in arm, to the find their second stop of the afternoon.

The magic store is tucked away a few doors down from City Lights, hidden from Muggle eyes with some fancy illusion enchantments that make the storefront look long abandoned. When Quentin looks through the diamond shape he creates with his thumbs and forefingers, the barred windows with their padlocks and papered-over interiors change to glass door with a little bell on the inside. Inside the windows, he can see things shifting and whirring, which puts Quentin in mind of the shops he works with in New York. 

“Brakebills alum from the class of 2001, I think,” Eliot says, opening the door for Quentin. “I think that class mostly managed graduate without any major magical drama.”

“Lucky them,” Quentin says. “Wonder what that’s like.” 

“No fucking clue.” 

The inside of the shop feels crowded in the same way that City Lights did—filled not just with objects for sale but with its own brand of magical history. There’s an engraving just inside that reads, ‘Magick Oddities and More Est. 1946.’ 

“Eliot—hey! Welcome.” An very attractive man in his forties with silver hair and glasses appears from the back, making his way toward Quentin and Eliot through the crowded nooks and crannies of the shop. He pulls Eliot into an embrace, and Quentin raises an eyebrow. He makes a note not to ask Eliot how he knows this guy. Or not to ask him. Maybe he doesn’t want to know. He probably doesn’t want to know.

“Byron,” Eliot says, all warmth and charm. He pulls away smoothly and gestures to Quentin. “This is my partner, Quentin.” 

‘Partner’ always puts Quentin in mind of a law firm, but he always rolls with it. He feels more like a boyfriend. But he guesses they’re closer to thirty than they were a year ago, and ‘partner’ sounds like… maybe something more mature than like, going steady. Still. 

“Uh. Nice to meet you.” Quentin sticks out his hand and thrusts it into Byron’s hand. “Very, uh. Cool shop.”

“Thank you. So nice to meet you.” Byron’s smile is warm, and Quentin decides maybe he’s okay. He doesn’t, like, _love_ the way guys are with Eliot. He gets it, like for real. But Quentin has a thing where, call him crazy, he doesn’t like people getting all over Eliot without Quentin’s permission. He never _says_ this, but El knows it, and he does a lot of extracting himself from thirsty guys for Quentin’s sake. Byron seems… relatively harmless. He looks at Quentin for a second, studying him. “You’re the one who saved magic.”

“Oh, uh.” Quentin flushes, cheeks hot, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “I mean. I had, like, a lot of help.” He cuts his eyes at Eliot, who cringes. He knows this is _not_ Quentin’s favorite subject. God, he sounds like he did when he stumbled up to Eliot before the Brakebills entrance exam. 

“You came back from the dead—” Byron starts. “Forgive me. Your story is just fascinating.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.” Quentin rocks back on his heels, nearly crashing into one of the display cases. He’s guessing Byron expected someone a little different when he thought, ‘oh that’s the Quentin who saved magic.’

“Byron,” Eliot says, diffusing the tension. “I’m actually looking for a picnic blanket. Or something that can be used as such. Something enchanted to be extra light and small. I’ve seen them in New York.”

“Certainly,” Byron says, smiling and clearing his throat. “Right this way.” 

Quentin breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t love rehashing his return from the underworld. That story was reserved for his core group of friends, with Eliot being the only person who got the entire story, start to finish. It’s not easy to tell. He does think, often, about being able to tell his father about Eliot. He knows Penny-40 made sure to tell him where Quentin had gone, and he’s pretty sure his dad understood that Quentin had to come back—to all of this. 

In his wandering through the seemingly endless shop of oddities, Quentin picks up a deck of beautifully painted Push cards for Kady so he can kick her ass in style and a book of manifestation castings for Alice since she’s started collecting antique editions of spell books. He picks up an antique bronze and rose-tinted glass viewer meant to suss out enchantments for Julia, because the notebook is beginning to seem a little boring compared with everything else in here. When they leave, Eliot has another package with what Quentin suspects is the picnic blanket he used to distract Byron. It’s getting toward late afternoon, and Quentin’s stomach twists a little. 

Eliot takes his hand. “Why don’t we walk up to the park near the apartment and spread out the picnic blanket while it’s still sunny? You can read to me.”

“That’d be amazing, El.” Quentin’s cheeks go a little hot, which— _why_? This is just like, normal stuff they do. But it’s all just so… he doesn’t know. Special. Ideal. Something different.

“All my ideas are amazing. You’ll see.”

Quentin snorts. “Yeah, okay. It’s almost the end of the day. You can stop teasing me and just like, cool it.” 

“Fine. You’re too cute when you’re irritated with me. I like it. Makes for a multi-layered Quentin experience. Irritated, also curious. Still flustered. Very sexy.” Eliot is ridiculous; no one else has ever accused Quentin of being ‘sexy.’ He presses a kiss to Quentin’s forehead and they walk, chatting about the magic shop and their plans for the rest of their week in Northern California. 

“Dream vacation?” Eliot asks when they’re a block or so from the park. “Anywhere in the world.”

Quentin hums, considering. “Maybe Britain and Ireland. Like in the summer. There’s plenty of nerdy shit I’d like to do. You?” 

“Anywhere with you.”

“Oh my God. Stop.” Quentin rolls his eyes. 

Eliot smiles and walks over to a semi-sunny spot under a tree, pulling a tiny pouch out of the bag and immediately unfolding it into a thick, corduroy blanket. “No picnic items, but I think it’ll come in handy.”

“Like we picnic so much,” Quentin says, rolling his eyes a little. But Eliot is right. When they do go outside—more these days thanks to Walter—they tend to lie out in the sun like cats. Buying the blanket, like so much of what Eliot does, was a small, perfect touch that makes their lives better. 

“C’mere, baby.” Eliot props himself up against the tree and beckons for Quentin to come lie back in his lap. For a moment, clad in his linen button down and gray trousers, hair tousled from the breeze, he looks still very much like a king, regal and grand. It lights something up inside of Quentin. 

Quentin sits down next to Eliot and moves so that he’s draped over him, his head resting just above Eliot’s waist, Eliot’s arm casually draped across Quentin’s chest. “Still can’t tell me?”

“No.” He pauses. “Read to me.”

Sometimes, in small moments like these, he feels the enormity of his life with Eliot buzzing beneath his skin, and he’s—he’s _amazed_. How exquisite a life he leads that he has gotten to share a life with this man, that he gets to do it all over again. Quentin gets out _Howl_ and opens the book to an old favorite, one he read and reread in college. “This is um. I dunno. Maybe it’s corny. But it’s Allen Ginsberg so it’s like, also cool.”

“Read me anything,” Eliot says. Quentin can feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath his head. 

“Okay. Uh. This is just called, ‘Song.’”

“Creative.”

Quentin smiles and starts to read to Eliot, here in the dappled sun late in the day. It’s a little bit like a fairytale. He can accept that. 

“The weight of the world   
is love.  
Under the burden   
of solitude,  
under the burden   
of dissatisfaction  
the weight,  
the weight we carry   
is love.

Who can deny?   
In dreams   
it touches   
the body,  
in thought   
constructs  
a miracle,   
in imagination  
anguishes   
till born  
in human—  
looks out of the heart   
burning with purity—  
for the burden of life   
is love,

but we carry the weight   
wearily,  
and so must rest  
in the arms of love   
at last,  
must rest in the arms   
of love.

No rest   
without love,  
no sleep   
without dreams  
of love—   
be mad or chill  
obsessed with angels   
or machines,  
the final wish   
is love—  
cannot be bitter,   
cannot deny,  
cannot withhold   
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

—must give  
for no return   
as thought   
is given   
in solitude   
in all the excellence   
of its excess.  
The warm bodies   
shine together  
in the darkness,   
the hand moves  
to the center   
of the flesh,  
the skin trembles   
in happiness  
and the soul comes   
joyful to the eye—

yes, yes,   
that’s what  
I wanted,   
I always wanted,  
I always wanted,   
to return  
to the body   
where I was born.”

When he looks up, Eliot is smiling at him, eyes sparkling. He leans down and kisses Quentin, soft and tender, his hand cupping Quentin’s cheek. 

He thinks this might be his best vacation. And—maybe. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know all of Eliot’s plans because he’s with Eliot, and right now, that’s more than enough. For now, he can just let it be.


	3. the weight,/the weight we carry/is love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot has a gift.

~Eliot~

“You rented a _car_? When is the last time you drove?”

“A year ago. But I’m a Midwestern boy, baby. I’ll never forget how to drive.” 

“Eliot. What on earth are we doing? Why do we need a car? We can walk everywhere in San Francisco.” Quentin gives him a sweet, confused little smile as they walk down Market Street, Eliot leading and Quentin trotting behind. 

“That is technically true. But I have a plan.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. I’ve been fucking asking you about it all day. And yesterday.” He can feel Quentin rolling his eyes next to him. Q bumps him against the shoulder, and he smiles, content, because he doesn’t always have a plan—that’s an insult to his great talent for spontaneity. But Eliot has _this_ plan. The most important plan. The Margo-and-Fen pre-approved plan. Theirs was a good balance of ‘fucking winning at logistics,’ as Margo had said, and ‘making it oh so romantic,’ which was Fen’s contribution. 

“I do this time,” Eliot says, looping his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and drawing him in close. 

“Is this going to be embarrassing?” Quentin asks. It’s a legitimate question. Well. If Eliot were planning this for _himself_ , it would definitely be Quentin’s idea of ‘embarrassing’ with a few grand gestures and a song and dance thrown in for good measure.

“No, baby. I told you. It’s for you. I think I know you well enough after a lifetime plus four years. No more questions.”

“You know I can’t promise that,” Quentin said, trying to sound grumpy, but he sounded more pleased than anything.

Eliot fishes the key fob out of his pocket and jingles them at Quentin before taking him by the shoulders and ushering him toward a Prius. “Our car for the evening is _fuel efficient_.” 

Quentin laughs, and he looks fucking adorable in his nice clothes with his tie, and honestly Eliot couldn’t be any fucking happier than he is right now with this man who _loves him_ for indecipherable reasons, throughout worlds and timelines. And he hopes Quentin’s not onto him, but Q just looks amused, smiling and dimpled as he gets into the car. “Seriously, where are we going? I feel weird getting into this car with a strange man.”

“Be honest with yourself, baby. If you’d never met me before and I just appeared in front of you, and I told you to get in a car, you’d probably do it.”

“Oh my God, I hate you.” 

He tugs Quentin close to him and kisses him, which shuts him up just fine every time. “I’m hopelessly in love with you.” Quentin burrows against his chest, and Eliot strokes his hair. “Let’s get in the car so I can actually romance you.”

The sun is setting over the city, and it’s just a touch warmer than it was yesterday—cool enough this evening for Quentin to wear the nice brown overcoat Eliot got him for Christmas, but not so cold they’ll be freezing. He’s put their coats in the back of the car, along with a picnic basket he picked up yesterday, enchanted to keep hot chocolate and coffee warm. And he managed every bit of it without Quentin knowing. 

As they begin the drive out of the city, Quentin keeps looking over Eliot. He starts rambling about the history of the Golden Gate Bridge and Muir Woods and the San Francisco poetry renaissance, but he keeps stopping and starting and skipping to a different topic. Usually, when Quentin gets going, he’s just fucking relentless until he’s exhausted every ounce of interest out of a topic. Eliot has fallen asleep many times just to the sound of Q talking about something. Right now, he’s jumping around in his head like Walter chasing a ball. He’s flustered—more flustered than usual. The traffic is light going across the bridge, and Eliot smiles—he planned it all perfectly. He might be terrible at a lot of things (okay, his therapist told him to stop saying that, but whatever), but he is going to execute this flawlessly. If Quentin can stop fucking asking him what they’re doing every thirty seconds.

“Okay, now can you tell me—” Quentin starts.

“So we’re going to Muir Woods tomorrow,” Eliot says, interrupting. “That’s part of why we need the car.”

“Oh yeah? Cool. I thought you said the days were mine.” 

“I lied about that one. But I knew you’d want to go. We have the car until two tomorrow.”

“Okay… what, um, are we.” Quentin stops, looking at something out of the window. “Alcatraz,” he says. Because he’s _Quentin_. 

Eliot snorts. “We’re going to take a look at the San Francisco skyline before dinner,” Eliot says, turning into the nearly empty parking lot by the overlook. There are a few people milling around still, but Eliot knows a spot—and a casting that should block out everything else while they’re here.

Eliot drapes Quentin’s coat around his shoulders as Quentin looks around curiously like he might be able to divine what Eliot has planned if he analyzes the parking lot well enough. “This is the Golden Gate Overlook.”

“Observant,” Eliot says, patting his shoulders. 

“Why are we dressed up?”

“Because we’re going to dinner after this. And I’m always dressed up.”

“You’re especially dressed up.” 

“I’d no idea you’d even notice.” Eliot has on his new vest—custom-made in London and, again, approved by Margo. It’s a wool and cashmere blend, five-button vest with a peaked him, and red and gold embroidery to match his gold-flecked paisley tie. It was more than a bit outside of his price range, but he’s hoping to pull it out more than a few times in the coming year. It was an occasion vest. Tonight was an occasion, and Margo had assured him it was just the right amount of overkill. 

“I’m aware that vest cost half of your last paycheck.”

Eliot gets the picnic basket and the corduroy picnic blanket he got while Quentin let him shop the day before. “What’s a paycheck for if not for vests?” 

Quentin eyes him suspiciously. “You’re acting weird.”

“I thought I was always acting weird. It’s part of my charm.” Eliot double-checks the picnic basket to make sure he has everything, and sure, maybe he’s heart is beating a little wildly and maybe he’s a little nervous because he’s never _done this_. Eliot’s life, up until recently, was a series of events that just _happened to_ Eliot. His shitty childhood in Indiana, the trauma of accidentally using his magic to kill someone, the Beast, the end of the world (multiple times), his kingship in Fillory, his marriage to Fen. Now he gets to choose, and it’s a little terrifying. But everything about choosing Quentin had always been a bit terrifying. This sensation of feeling like he’s about to jump off a cliff is nothing new. 

“If you say so. I don’t think you’re charming _at all_.” Q is smiling, radiating warmth, and Eliot is glad for the millionth time that he’s chosen someone so _good_. No. That someone so good has _chosen him_.

He takes Quentin by the arm and leads him to the spot he’s picked, the best place to see the skyline (and Alcatraz, he thinks, which Q will enjoy to no end). He casts a quick spell to make them both less noticeable so they don’t attract any annoying onlookers or park employees who would surely ruin everything. When they get to the spot, Eliot casts a partial silencing ward, enough so that they can hear the lapping of the water, the sounds of cars passing by. All the other people are blocked out. It’s only him and Quentin. 

Eliot puts down their picnic blanket on a small patch of grass and sits down, gesturing for Q to sit down with him. He does, looking bemused and sweetly expectant. 

“Do you want coffee or hot chocolate?”

Quentin grins. He’s probably onto Eliot by this point, but Eliot doesn’t really care. Now or never. “Um. Hot chocolate.”

“It’s gourmet. From a place that blends chocolate ganache with whole milk. Divine.” He hands Quentin one of the mugs and pours from the hot chocolate thermoses. 

“You were busy yesterday.” 

“I was.” Eliot smiles. He opts not to pour himself any coffee so that he doesn’t spill it all over himself. He might be more than a _little bit_ nervous. “I have a poem.”

“You have a what? I thought I was the one with a poem.” Quentin raises an eyebrow and sips at the hot chocolate. His cheeks are delightfully pink.

“You’re not the only one who can read poetry. I picked this one out for your anniversary.”

“It’s our anniversary.”

“Semantics,” Eliot says.

“It’s important.”

“Okay, it’s our anniversary. Noted. Let me do my thing.”

Quentin nods, smiles. The city is set out like a banquet before them, and the sun is going down behind them, casting golden light over the water and the city. “Do your thing.”

“I memorized it.”

Quentin’s smile shifts, taking over his whole face, making the corners of his eyes crinkle up like parentheses. “For me?”

“Yes, for you. Now, be quiet.” Quentin is laughing, and maybe he’s a little emotional already. Eliot clears his throat. Right before he starts, Quentin slips his hand into Eliot’s and holds tight. Eliot’s stomach does a little flip. “This is Accidents of Birth by William Meredith. You gave me a San Francisco poet. Meredith was a New York poet. Also very gay.”

Quentin laughs. Eliot clears his throat again because it feels like there’s a rock stuck there. But he starts.  
“Spared by a car or airplane crash or  
cured of malignancy, people look  
around with new eyes at a newly  
praiseworthy world, blinking eyes like these.”

Eliot pauses and squeezes Quentin’s hand. Quentin is beaming at him. Eliot had wept (he does that now) when he’d found this poem because it spoke the words of their story, of how their lives melded together time and time again, how they’d survived so much for each other—all the things he wants to say to Quentin but can never quite manage on his own. He’ll tell Q his thoughts on that tonight. He just has to get through this now without breaking.

“For I’ve been brought back again from the  
fine silt, the mud where our atoms lie  
down for long naps. And I’ve also been  
pardoned miraculously for years  
by the lava of chance which runs down  
the world’s gullies, silting us back.  
Here I am, brought back, set up, not yet  
happened away.”

He looks at Quentin, which is definitely a mistake, because there are tears in his eyes, and Eliot is definitely going to cry now, but that’s okay. He blinks and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He hopes his eyeliner doesn’t smudge. It matches his vest.

“But it’s not this random  
life only, throwing its sensual  
astonishments upside down on  
the bloody membranes behind my eyeballs,  
not just me being here again, old  
needer, looking for someone to need,  
but you, up from the clay yourself,  
as luck would have it, and inching  
over the same little segment of earth-  
ball, in the same little eon, to  
meet in a room, alive in our skins,  
and the whole galaxy gaping there  
and the centuries whining like gnats—  
you, to teach me to see it, to see  
it with you, and to offer somebody  
uncomprehending, impudent thanks.”

There are tears running down Quentin’s cheeks because he knows; he knows it’s them. It’s not just that they were put here, together, once, but in timelines stretching across the universe, one where they both got to live—together—until they were old and withered and worn. Eliot had voiced once that he was sure there was no timeline where he hadn’t fallen in love with Quentin. Q had been quiet—Alice was a fact, a reality, in all of their timelines. But she was his first love. Eliot knew, given the chance, Eliot would always be his last. He told Quentin that before he could go somewhere dark in his head, and he’d lit up, nodding. It made sense, didn’t it? It wasn’t so much that they’d met, that they’d happened to fall in love. It was that they chose each other, that they keep choosing each other, every day. And Quentin taught him to see it.

Quentin puts his hot chocolate down and climbs into Eliot’s lap kissing his chin, his cheeks, nuzzling into his neck and laughing, tears wet on his soft skin. And he kisses Eliot, his hand gentle at the nape of Eliot’s neck, fingers running through the curls curls there. Yeah, the poem was a pretty good choice. He smiles against Quentin’s mouth and gives him another kiss (for good measure) before pulling away. “I have something for you. A couple of things.”

“Yeah?” Quentin is flushed and dimpled and so, so pretty, and Eliot really doesn’t want to push him off of his lap, but he has to. He mustn’t interfere with Eliot’s plan. “Picnic blanket,” he says, pointing. 

“Jeez. Okay,” he says, sounding very put out. He groans, but he slides down next to Eliot. Eliot reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out a book, handing it to Q. 

“This is a book by William Meredith. Secret book from yesterday. It has ‘Accidents of Birth’ bookmarked. Hold on.” Eliot thinks he’s sweating now, but he’s not quite all the way inside of his body by this point, so he’s not entirely sure. He feels lightweight and floaty and shaken, and he pulls out the little blue box. He looks at Quentin, and he sort of looks like he might jump on Eliot again, and they’re both smiling like idiots. 

“Yes,” Quentin says. 

Eliot sighs, exasperated. Of fucking course. Jesus, _Quentin_. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that because it’s completely out of order, so please shut up.”

Quentin is biting his lip. He doesn’t say anything. 

Eliot opens the box. “Listen first before you say anything else, Q.”

“ _Fine_.”

“I got this custom made—”

“How many times have those words come out of your mouth—”

“Quentin.”

“ _Eliot_.”

“Okay, also ignoring that. Moving on. Don’t interrupt. I got this custom made. There’s a jeweler in New York that works with rare and magical materials—so.” Eliot takes a breath. “There’s a seam of stone from Whitespire, and wood from the Physical Kids’ Cottage, and agate along the edges.” He points to the black edges on either side of the wood and stone. 

“And this?” Quentin is pointing at the vermilion line that runs through the center of the ring

“That’s from one of the tiles at the mosaic. There’s not much there now, but I found one of the red tiles when I was visiting Margo and Fen.”

Quentin is wiping away tears; they’re streaming down his face now. His breath is a little ragged, and he clearly wants to say something, but it takes him a bit. “That was like six months ago, El.” 

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about this for… a long time.”

Quentin has tears in his eyes. “You planned all of this.”

“I’ve been telling you I had plans.” Eliot adjusts his tie for lack of something better to do. He’d thought of getting down on one knee. He’d thought of hiring a skywriter or doing a flash mob (he has connections), but this is better. “So.”

“So,” Quentin says, laughing. 

“I love you. I’ve loved you for a lot longer than four years. And when we lived at the mosaic, I didn’t know how to tell you until we were a lot older than we are now. I pushed you away—more than once—and you still loved me. You were just so _certain._ But I’m doing it… right this time. Because I’m…” Eliot’s voice cracks a little, which is not ideal, but it’s _fine_ , and Quentin is crying anyway. “I’m looking forward to another fifty years with you. If you’d like to make an honest man of me.”

Quentin is wiping his eyes and laughing, smiling, his hair falling out of its bun a bit. He looks tragically handsome in his clothes, Eliot thinks. Illegally, breathtakingly beautiful. “Was there a question in there?”

“Oh. Yes. Will you marry me?” Eliot puts Quentin’s hand in his and slides the ring on before Quentin has a chance to answer. But he already said yes. So Eliot figures he better get the ring on Quentin’s finger and lock this all down.

“I will,” Quentin says. 

“Oh, really? Good.” There’s a comforting, warm, expanding feeling inside of him. Eliot’s memories of the mosaic are frustratingly vague, but he remembers this—this feeling. It was maybe three years Arielle had died, he thinks, that Q told Eliot to stop ‘fucking bugging him’ about ‘moving on’ and ‘finding another nice girl to marry.’ In typical Quentin fashion (this he remembers better than some of the other memories), he’d pushed Eliot up against the cabin door and told him he was a ‘stupid dick’ and ‘of course he’d loved Arielle and always would,’ but he’d only ever been with her because Eliot _pushed him_ away, and he was sick of dancing around and playing ‘dumb fucking high school games.’ He’d kissed Eliot and told him that this was it for him, for the rest of his life, if only Eliot would ‘get his head out of his own ass.’ 

Eliot has been working on that for a while now.

That was the first time that he let that warmth expand in him, like light taking over on the darkest days. It was the first time he’d thought maybe he could have this, the thing his father had repeatedly told him he could _never have_. That realization didn’t stop him from fucking it up again, but this—this week, four years ago, he fucking _miraculously_ got another chance. He hasn’t been planning this proposal for six months, more like four years plus a nebulous amount of time in his happy place (which wasn’t terribly happy at all when he found out none of the Quentins he was fucking were actually real). He’d checked the other boxes off on his list—Eliot is sober, they’re both gainfully employed, they own a condo in Brooklyn, they’re in therapy, and they’ve kept their dog alive for two years now. He’s been on a quest to ask this question for a long time; and here is his reward.

Quentin climbs him again because Quentin has a hard time not climbing Eliot even on normal days, and Eliot would say he’s been exceptionally romantic and adorable for the duration of their San Francisco trip. Quentin kisses him and wraps his legs around Eliot’s waist, and he’s wearing the ring that Eliot got for him, and he’s here, really here, alive and whole, and he has the rest of his life to prove to Quentin that he loves him, that he always has, always will, that he’ll keep choosing this. 

There’s another question he’d like to ask, but they’re young still, and there’s plenty of time to get on a list to foster—and adopt, he hopes. They might be able to be a home for a traveler or magician kid who’s been kicked out of their house, like Penny had been. He thinks there’s a way they could find that, help a kid like that. It’s not something he ever let himself want until Teddy, who he misses so much that it aches. And they were pretty great dads, weren’t they? 

That’s a question for another day. They still have dinner and dancing and the AirBnB, where Eliot can fall in bed and kiss his fiancé senseless. He’s also legally required to FaceTime Margo, and he’ll have to plan the Fillory engagement party and the Brooklyn engagement party and the bachelor party and the actual wedding at a vineyard in upstate New York. And the honeymoon. Ireland, maybe. Like Quentin said. It will be a year for events.

There’s time for all of it. And so he kisses Quentin for a long time and lets himself relax, finally, into the weight of being wanted and held and loved.


End file.
